


Vampires Arise

by larissabernstein



Category: Tanz der Vampire - Steinman/Kunze
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Dance of the Vampires - Freeform, Dubious Consent, F/M, Humor, Introspection, Oral Sex, Original Broadway Cast, POV Female Character, Pre-Canon, Somnophilia, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:01:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23867218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larissabernstein/pseuds/larissabernstein
Summary: A “Dance of the Vampires” (Broadway version) fic, set a few days before the beginning of the musical. Driven by her dreams and innate curiosity, Sarah ventures into the castle of the reclusive and eccentric nobleman, only to make a most peculiar encounter.
Relationships: Sarah Chagal/Graf von Krolock
Kudos: 5





	Vampires Arise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vfrankenstein](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vfrankenstein/gifts).



> Oho, what is this, another DOTV fic? Indeed, inspired by a fun movie night (“Frightmare” with a brilliantly self-ironic Ferdy Mayne, who was also the original Krolock in Polanski’s film), this fic deviates just enough from established canon that it can claim a corner of its own, separated from the universe and timeline that unite my other DOTV works (“Perchance to Feast”, “Ten of Nights”, and “FaceTime” can each stand on their own, but I envisioned them in a continuous timeline).
> 
> Dedicated to my lovely Lillian. Which is only fair as none of my DOTV fics would exist without you.

**Vampires Arise**

Rich people were odd by definition, simply because they could afford it, and nobility was not to be trusted, especially if one belonged to the so-called lower classes; one never knew what whimsy would next cross their mind, and such whimsies tended to end badly for the commoners, be it through wars or pogroms or newly invented taxes. This much was clear to her, even if her school education in Lower Belabartokovich had been sorely lacking. Not that her fellow common villagers were such a better crowd, with their stubborn superstitions and prejudices. Sarah sighed and kicked a small stone out of her way on the road. The era of the 1880s might have been touched by the light of enlightenment, but some obsolete concepts still had a strong hold on people in her neck of the woods.

Sarah pulled her shawl tighter around herself and quickened her pace. If her father could see her now! She loved her parents dearly, really, but in some ways they were just as old-fashioned and superstitious as the other villagers. Deep down in her heart, Sarah knew that they only meant well; they wanted to protect her, shield her from the big bad world — not that she had had any contact in her young life with the world at large anyway, big or bad or both — and guide her onto a path of virtue and righteousness. It was going to be a path determined by others, of course, be it society, or religious morals, or her parents, but never by herself.

Sarah stopped for a moment and put down her heavy basket, to take in the sight before her eyes, the dark grey monster of a building now in clear view for her, close enough to smell the moss-covered bricks and stones. So this was the _dreaded castle_ of the _dreaded Count von Krolock_ , a building that had only ever loomed like a dark shadow on the hill overlooking the sprawling forests and tiny villages, one of which was the one Sarah had been calling home for almost eighteen years now.

The village was always buzzing with rumours and legends about this castle and its reclusive inhabitants, stories shared in hushed tones about the Von Krolock family and their odd customs, the secrecy surrounding them that surely had to mean something bad or downright evil, because good people, really good people, didn’t have to hide anything, was this not common sense? No, the Krolocks, they had to be dangerous and shady, if only because no one ever saw the Count or his noble family in person.

Sarah was sick of it. So what — the Count wasn’t keen on mingling with his garlic-scented subjects; maybe this was not so much proof of his snobby arrogance or of an evil character, but rather a shy disposition? From all these weird tales about him that only ever got wilder the more often she heard them, she could only gather one vital information: he seemed to be a deeply private person, probably a bookworm like herself, and if he had to hide behind mysteries, so be it.

She picked up her basket again, heavy with fine silk, probably for the equally mysterious Madame Krolock, and walked towards the gate at the end of the road. Taking the delivery of these goods into her own hands was a good excuse to gain a few hours of freedom, a freedom she elsewise only found in her books or dreams, a chance to stretch her legs, and breathe in the fresh air of the forest; her father rarely allowed her such liberties, and truth to be told, he had not exactly allowed her this one either, but thankfully he had been so busy with the repairs of one of their guest rooms, that he had only absently nodded when she’d declared that she and Magda would take care of delivering ordered goods to their customers; it was in his best interest, after all, to collect the outstanding amounts as soon as possible, with the repairs adding to the upkeep cost of the inn. That she and Magda were going to do this on separate paths, to different customers, had not been a topic; nor had her father paid much attention to the list of customers and the _dreaded_ name that featured so prominently on it.

It was another little victory for Sarah, to gain this short period of time, an afternoon of enjoying adult responsibility and the wonderful, if fleeting, feeling of freedom and power it gave her. If she managed to catch her father at another opportune moment of distraction, she might even ask him if she could go pick mushrooms with her friends this week… Maybe that was pushing her luck, but she was certainly going to try.

She opened the heavy gate to the path that lead to the main entrance of the castle, and it came as a surprise that even the door of this main entrance was unlocked. No servants were in sight, no sound to be heard, and wasn’t that extremely strange? As far as she knew, the Count was unmarried or widowed, but rumours said that he had an adult son and a spinster sister, Madame Krolock, who were living with him at the castle. Three people of nobility surely needed at least a modest number of servants, to take care of cleaning and cooking and gardening, and whatever else life at a castle entailed. There had to be at least one servant, Sarah knew, as one rather uncommunicative man used to appear at the inn every now and then to pick up goods and daily necessities for the comital household.

However, as she now walked through the hallways and rooms dimly lit with candelabras, there was no soul in sight, and Sarah felt sheepish that she had just straight-up walked into this estate, without any appointment or even clear instruction that the Krolocks even wanted their goods delivered this time. Maybe they were out for a hunting trip?

“Hello?” She called, loudly, while trying to keep the tone of her voice polite and friendly despite the volume. “Anyone here?” But the only answer was the faint echo of her own words.

Sarah hesitated, unsure whether she should just leave and walk back to the village, job unaccomplished, and the heavy basket a now rather unwelcome weight, or give it a few more minutes, when she suddenly noticed something like fog or smoke coming from around one corner and wafting into the hallway. So there had to be someone! Perhaps this would lead her to the kitchen where she would finally find some staff; if the family was out on a hunting trip, they were surely going to expect a nice hot meal in the evening. She followed the haze, and it was a weird kind of smoke, lacking any discernible scent of burnt wood or typical kitchen aromas, and the hallway suddenly gave way to a staircase. Worth a try, Sarah thought and slowly climbed down the stairs, holding her basket close to her body to better bear its weight.

At the end of the staircase she found yet another door, unlocked, of course — these Krolocks really seemed to fear no intruders — and entered a high-vaulted windowless room, lit only by torches on the wall, with several wooden boxes on stone pedestals. Not a kitchen, Sarah thought with dismay, and she already wanted to turn around to leave when something caught her eye. These boxes looked rather odd, almost like… coffins? Perhaps this was a kind of storage room, but who kept spare coffins? She decided to take a closer look at them, put down her basket, and — yes, one of those boxes was open, the lid leaning against the nearest wall, and there —

She shrieked. There was a man in that coffin! My god, there was a real man in that coffin, in elegant evening wear, his face sombre and regal, with a big red pendant on a gold chain around his neck, a pendant resembling the letter K.

Krolock.

That had to be… the Count?

Was he…? No, it could not be, this man did not look dead, rather — asleep. But why was he sleeping in a coffin, for god’s sake?

Sarah felt her heart beat all the way up into her throat, and a tremor kept going through her body. What was she to do now? Just leave and get the hell back to her village, alarm her father or the other villagers, add to the never-ending stories of horror and insanity that surrounded the name Krolock?

This man did not look dead at all. Sarah was certain that the death of such an important person would have featured prominently in the gazettes and especially in the village talk. And if he were dead — why would he be laid out like this, with his relatives nowhere in sight, no one to keep a vigil?

Rich and noble people were odd, Sarah reminded herself; they kept eccentric customs. So what if the Count decided to put on fine evening wear and take a nap in a box resembling a coffin? It was his house, his estate; he could indulge in whatever weird behaviour he wanted to.

No, this man was not dead. Please, let him be not dead.

Admittedly, his breathing seemed to be extremely shallow, as she could hardly see his chest rise and fall at all. She squinted her eyes at the motionless form again. No, there was really no breathing at all to detect. But then, even if her parents kept telling her that she was way too intelligent for a proper village girl, she was certainly not a doctor. Maybe some people’s breathing was naturally shallow during a phase of deep sleep. It was likely unwise and unhealthy to try and wake him if he was in such a comatose state.

The Count’s complexion, however, did seem sickly pale, with dark shadows under his eyes and cheekbones. Maybe he was of ill health after all. If Sarah were lying that pale and unmoving in her bed, her mother would have checked her for a fever already. But surely, she could not simply put a hand on the man’s forehead to check his temperature… It was altogether improper for an unchaperoned young woman to even be in a room alone together with an adult man, least touch him! Sarah bit her lip and tried to think the situation through from all angles. The nobleman was very probably only sleeping, albeit in an arguably eccentric fashion, and even if he were a little poorly — the common cold was a thing in this chilly and grey season after all — he was surely going to be alright. Touching his forehead would likely wake him up and she could not even begin to imagine what embarrassing situation this would be; she was trespassing in his castle, sneaking about in his cellar, staring at his sleeping form, and what an even greater crime would touching him present? Surely, the Count would have her arrested or maybe he would even lock her up in his dungeon — every castle had a dungeon, did it not? — or maybe he would even turn violent.

Sarah could not help staring some more at the stranger’s face, as if it held all the answers to her conundrum. Was this the face of a man who would have an innocent girl arrested or even turn violent just because she worried about him?

It was a mild face, oddly familiar to her, even if she had never seen the Count in person or portrait before. In fact, there was something extremely familiar about his features, if only in details, like this one hair curl falling over his brow, and the few freckles here, and the shape of his lips, as if she had encountered — not him, but pieces and fragments of him, distorted bits of a picture, a spectre made of dreams. The face seemed melancholic, but relaxed and friendly despite the sickly pallor and those grey shadows marring its cheeks. The lids of his closed eyes seemed thin and delicate like an expensive fabric, and through the reddish tint — was this make-up? — she could see fine veins. His eyelashes were exceptionally long and — dare she even think of a male stranger this way? — rather attractive. Come to think of it, all of this face seemed rather handsome. The Count might have been about the age of her father, maybe fifty, maybe sixty years old, but he had a decidedly different appearance. There was something almost boyish about him, beneath the lines that clearly told a story of a long and adventurous life. She had never spent much time looking so attentively at a male face before, up close and in detail, and to be honest, having the chance to unashamedly explore one gave her a strange kind of thrill.

That did not exactly help her make a decision, though. The stranger seemed kind and respectable, and would she ever be able to forgive herself for leaving him alone sick and in need of help, when destiny had lead her footsteps into his castle and this eery room to find him? Maybe it was her ethical obligation to help the man!

Enough, she told herself sternly, enough ruminating and musing, the man is right here in front of you, and you have the power to maybe save a life. Just act on it.

So she stretched out a timid hand and finally made contact with his forehead, almost flinching back as soon as skin met skin. How cold he was! He was most certainly not well. And while this man had to be alive, napping in a coffin in a cold cellar, no matter how valid as an eccentric custom, was a certain way to catch one’s death. How could his relatives allow the head of their family such stupid whimsy and leave him all alone?

She had no idea what made her do it, but she could not simply retract her hand again, but she had to let her fingers and palm of her hand glide along his features, from his forehead down over his temples — the hair was streaked with grey there, and surprisingly this, too, was a rather attractive sight — and down his cheeks, barely skirting his full lips. It came as yet another surprise when she noticed that these grey shadows on his skin seemed to be make-up. Men wearing make-up were not a common sight in the village, but of course, nobility was a different story. Eccentricity had to be in their blood.

His skin might have been very cold, but it felt soft and supple under her hand, a very nice sensation actually. Maybe his collar was too constricting? Perhaps his clothes were too tight in general; formal and elegant garments always looked like a suffocating armour to her. Sarah’s fingers busied themselves with loosening his cravat and collar and undoing a few of his buttons on his jacket, waistcoat, and shirt. There, that was better. Maybe… maybe while she was already at it, she should take the opportunity to check for his heartbeat, just to see if it was regular and strong? She opened his shirt some more, and — oh, there was skin, she encountered skin right under the fabric — and why did that surprise her so much, she shook her head to clear it. Of course, there was skin, pale skin, with a dusting of chest hair, and where exactly was the heart? Ah, yes, here, slightly to the left it had to be. She put the palm of one hand flat against the cool chest; no, this was not a good method to check someone’s heartbeat, so she got a little closer and finally put one ear against his chest.

That… that had to be his heartbeat, surely? Or was it her own, pulsing so excitedly and buzzing under her skin?

Sarah gave a loud and frustrated sigh; no, this was not helping at all, and she silently chastised herself for being so nervous and jittery. Get a grip, Sarah, she mumbled, get a grip and do something to help this man. She went over the facts again: the Count was unresponsive, sleeping or unconscious; he looked not exactly healthy; his breathing was very shallow and his heartbeat probably a bit too weak; his skin was… nice — no, get a grip, Sarah! — his skin was cold, too cold. Adding the fact that his relatives and servants were all out and about, doing god knows what and leaving the poor man all alone, it became clear to her that it was her duty to help him. Leaving and getting a doctor from the village was an option, but would they even take her seriously? And it was a long walk — his condition could worsen while she was on her way. No, first she had to make sure that the Count was stable enough to be left alone without risking his life.

A few years ago she had read about a practice called the _kiss of life_ ; it was a strange and stagy name for a purely medical method of aiding someone mouth-to-mouth with breathing. What had appeared rather inappropriate to her at the time — but then, she had been a blushing teenager — seemed to be the right course of action now. She summoned her courage and gently coaxed his mouth open with thumb and finger; his lips were pliant and cooperative at least. Pinching his nose shut with her other hand, she sealed his lips with hers and blew warm air into his lungs. It still felt inappropriate, she could not help it, and it was a curious thing to touch these lips so intimately — they had an interesting slightly metallic taste, she noticed — but the method wasn’t too difficult; Sarah focused on the task at hand — come up for fresh air, inhale deeply, then breathe this precious air into the man’s airways, and repeat. She glanced sideways at his chest, and indeed, it was rising and falling in the rhythm of the treatment; now she only had to hope that he would start to pick up this rhythm himself and breathe along until a normal flow of air to his lungs was restored.

Sarah had never kissed a man before, and while this was technically not even an actual kiss, it still felt like a sweet and forbidden fruit. How soft these lips were under hers, and how yielding! They moulded perfectly to hers, and it gave her a curious kind of satisfaction how well they fit together. But, Sarah!, she scolded herself, stop dreaming and wishing — this is a man of nobility and there is no way you will ever get to relive this experience with him when he’s awake and well again.

She continued with this rhythmic kiss of life and put one hand on his chest again; it was good to both see and feel it rising and falling, and surely his heartbeat had become stronger now? Or was this again her own pulse distorting the observation? No, her diligent efforts had to pay off, they just had to, and she glanced again down the length of his body, watching for any sign of movement, a twitch of his hands maybe, or a jerk of a foot. And, oh, there — something was indeed different there, she only noticed it now, there was a strange bulge below his waist, and it seemed to grow even while she was looking at it. The trousers of his evening suit were distinctly distorted there, and — well, that was an unexpected reaction, but at least it was something! Her efforts did have an effect on his body after all.

She paused in her ministrations, which made his breathing go back to shallow, but, thankfully, it still seemed to be less shallow than it had been before, and took a closer look at this bulge. She had no illusions about what kind of body part that had to be. Sheltered and virtuous as she was, Sarah was not naive either; her mother had only ever talked in very vague terms about human anatomy with her, and the school teachers had not been helpful either, but one did see all kinds of things in a rural village, and human anatomy could not be that different from the anatomy of animals. Some older village girls had also gossiped in a rather prurient way about trysts they had accidentally witnessed in barns, or even — very much not accidentally — experienced themselves, and while her parents would surely be outraged at her for keeping company with such girls, she had at least acquired some theoretical knowledge from listening to their — probably highly exaggerated — stories.

The bulge seemed to have no intention of shrinking again, and Sarah wondered if the tight trousers weren’t too constricting and uncomfortable, especially with the fragile state the man was still in. Maybe she should loosen the fastenings of his trousers a bit, just like she had undone his collar and shirt buttons before? It was a purely medical intervention, aimed at making the man more comfortable and aiding with his recovery, and before Sarah could question her intentions twice, she quickly opened the fastenings and loosened the flap that covered the man’s most private parts. Again, the Count managed to surprise her — this man was full of surprises! — when she encountered skin rather suddenly, this very private part snaking its way out from between the folds of fabric, rising in what she could only call a proud and stubborn gesture, until it just stood there stiff and erect, in stark contrast to the dark fabric, and in even starker contrast to the horizontal pose of the rest of his body.

She could not take her eyes off it. This body part, this… cock was the name the not-so-virtuous girls had used for it… — it was of massive size, both in length and circumference, and there were prominent veins drawing a most riveting pattern all over the shaft, but this was nothing compared to the bulbous tip of this organ, a shape that reminded her strongly of a mushroom.

The hushed talk among the older village girls had not prepared her for a sight like this. She knew that this part of the male anatomy was supposed to penetrate her body one day; ideally, this was going to happen with her future lawful husband, because good girls did not experiment or leave the path of virtue, and she would do as her husband wished and soon bear his children just like the generations of women before her had followed the path of tradition. What an abstract and not exactly tempting concept!

However, this idea about penetration just had to be a misunderstanding on her part. There was no way such a long and thick limb could fit into the most private part of her anatomy! She looked closer at it again and could only shake her head. No way! She was not even able to completely encircle its girth with her hand. And, oh, when had she even begun to try just that? She had no conscious memory of even reaching out, but her hand was right there, holding this cock and exploring it.

There was a fold of skin at the end of this organ. The more she examined his cock and touched it, the thicker and stiffer it seemed to become; and the tip of it cheekily peeked out from beneath this skin, shiny and glistening with a few beads of clear fluid. More moisture leaked out of it when she let both of her hands glide up and down the length, her grasp strong but careful not to hurt him. It was difficult to tell, but a strong grip did not seem to bother him, quite the contrary. The supine form of the Count was still unmoving and almost lifeless, but she was sure she had heard something like a soft moan coming from his slightly parted lips. It was not a sound of pain at all. She had to try that again just to be sure. She let both hands wander up and down the shaft again and paid closer attention to the bulbous head of his cock — the skin there was a curious thing, it could slide up and down a little, facilitated by the wetness that spread all over the tip. And again, as if on cue, there was a moan coming from him, louder and more urgent this time. Well, at least this treatment seemed to work! The Count did not seem so pallid anymore, and whatever was wrong with him, it could not be that serious or dangerous, as he quite obviously seemed to be able to feel pleasure.

If anyone had told her this morning that she was to spend her afternoon reviving the _dreaded_ Count von Krolock in the most scandalous and unorthodox way imaginable, she would have thought them utterly insane. However, perhaps she was the insane one in this picture, judging by her very own physical reactions, Sarah wondered, as she fought against the warm and tingling sensation in her lower body. There was no doubt that this treatment did something to her as well, and she could not help pressing her thighs together under her skirts, chasing any kind of friction attainable, chasing the sensation almost desperately, and she felt her own most private parts throb and pulse and release more and more wetness.

She felt pulled back into a series of dreams that she had experienced with increasing frequency over the last year. It was shameful, was it not? More than once had she awoken with a hand between sticky thighs, her body relaxed and boneless, and sweet bliss hanging over her like cobwebs. These were often enough erotic dreams, filled with scandalous visuals, naked flesh, odd longings, if only in a very fragmented and kaleidoscopic way. How her body ached to be touched and… filled! If all men including her future husband had such a massive organ, then help her god, but maybe, maybe it was just a question of wanting it strongly enough, burning for it strongly enough, and maybe this thick length would fit just right. She could not envision ever burning so strongly for the very abstract concept of a future husband that her parents and society deemed suitable for her, but — for the life of her — this thick cock in her hands right now made her burn! It felt right and good and — my god, what had become of her?! — she could vividly imagine this enormous thing impaling her and filling her, and the thought was not so much frightening anymore but thrilling, and the Count’s unashamed gasps and shudders sent shivers down her spine.

If only she could make the glide up and down his shaft a bit smoother… She thought for a moment, and then licked both of her palms until her saliva made them shiny and wet. It was not a perfect solution, but it felt definitely nicer when she went back to stroking him, and if it felt nicer to her, then there was no doubt that it had to feel nicer to him as well. This was a rather intimate situation now, Sarah realised, and would it be such a greater transgression to take this one step further? He had not displayed any reactions of complaint or discomfort so far, rather, on the contrary, her ministrations seemed to be well received. She hesitated for a moment, hands stilling on his cock, and was this a tiny whimpering noise coming from him, as if he wanted her to continue? Whatever made her do it, she touched the head of his cock with one finger to pick up some of the moisture and brought the finger to her lips. After a quick glance at his face — his eyes were closed and nothing seemed to register with him — she licked the drops off the pad of her finger. Interesting… it was not a strong or unpleasant taste, just very foreign. She bit her lip and struggled with a queer and sudden urge. Would she..? Could she…? Oh, damn it, she cursed under her breath and immediately felt guilty for uttering such a profanity, maybe she should just follow her intuition.

She bent lower over his body and brought her lips close to his stiff length. It immediately seemed to react to her warm breath, or perhaps it was just her imagination, because could that part of his body really sense her getting closer? Was this even possible? And still, she could swear that it gave a minute twitch and strained more strongly towards her lips. There was no going back now — she just had to do it. The moment her lips touched the thick head of his cock, she could not hold back any longer, and her tongue came out to join in the effort almost automatically. She explored the smooth, velvety surface carefully and gently, letting her tongue circle around the circumference, making it dip into this tiny slit — which elicited more moans and groans from the man, and she was sure his hips had moved a little — and it was a new and fascinating sensation for her to alternate between playful licks and broader, stronger moves of her tongue all over the surface. His hips bucked again, and the cock was forced a bit into her mouth. She gasped and drew back, but it gave her an idea. She took a bigger portion of the tip into her mouth, closing her lips gently around it, and very mindful of her teeth — surely, the nobleman would not appreciate any kind of biting — and sucked on it as if it were a juicy fruit or sweet; and really, it released more of these beads of liquid. A long and pronounced moan came from the man, followed by puffs of breath. She repeated the action and allowed the cock deeper into her mouth on the next move. Again, he twitched and his pelvis came up a little as if to chase the sensation. It was an odd kind of reassurance; surely, she did not hurt him or make his situation any worse, and if anything, her actions seemed to be outright good for him, this had to be more than wishful thinking. She tried to take even more of him into her mouth, but it was a tight fit and she was afraid to scratch him with her teeth. So she settled for bobbing her head up and down just a little, consoling the rest of his length by stroking it with her hands, and it was fun to take him first only a little deeper, then to allow more shallow jabs into the hollow of one cheek.

His breathing was nowhere near shallow now, however; it picked up strength and speed, and so did his moans and sighs; it was ridiculous given his unconscious state, but she felt as if he tried to cheer her on, encourage her, and so she gave it her all, despite her jaw starting to hurt under the unusual strain, and she kept lavishing affection on this beautiful cock with her mouth and stimulating him, until she quite suddenly felt the tension in the air reach a critical moment, and before she could even process what was happening, the Count gave a strangled shout and the cock in her mouth jumped and jerked several times and a flood of a hot creamy liquid filled her mouth. It took her by surprise and even frightened her, and she convulsively swallowed the load lest she choke on it. When the cock finally stilled, she carefully let it slip out of her mouth and risked a look up along the form of the Count, utterly terrified to probably find a pair of all-knowing eyes staring at her in outrage and shock, but his eyes were still closed and his facial features relaxed — more relaxed and at peace than before, with even a faint touch of rosy colour brightening his cheeks, and a soft snoring noise proof enough of his ability to breathe on his own.

She let go of his cock that seemed to soften now, becoming limp and even shrinking a bit, making it appear less monstrous and daunting. My god, what had she done?! What evil spirit had possessed her?!

Sarah tucked his spent cock back into the flap of his trousers, with useless trembling fingers, but she did it in haste, only hiding it away out of her sight and unable to spend any more time or attention on the buttons or fastenings of his clothes. She had to get out of here, away from the man, away from this castle, before he was going to come around and discover what she had done to him. Fear almost paralysed her, but she forced her body to obey, and on shaky legs she tore herself away from the open coffin. The Count, at least, seemed to be out of immediate danger, and she could not help touching his face one more time, in a sad farewell caress, and breathed the softest of kisses against his lips, before she fled the room without turning back, urging her feet to move, move, move, running along the endless hallways, until she finally found the exit and left the iron gate of the castle behind, never stopping, never looking back, through forest and across the dirty roads, while the last rays of light were disappearing behind the silhouette of the trees, until she reached her village and house and finally collapsed on her bed, exhausted and terrified and still floating on a cloud of pleasure that was neither his nor hers alone.

~ * ~

Krolock came to with a hearty yawn, stretching his limbs in the confines of his coffin, and through the slowly receding haze of sleep he smiled by himself, as he recalled his dream. It had felt so real and vivid! He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and sat up, immediately puzzled by his state of undress when he looked down at himself. Waistcoat and collar were askew, half of his shirt buttons undone, and the flap of his rumpled trousers was open. There was also this strange sensation below his waist, a residual tingling mixed with the sated feeling of a recent powerful orgasm. Krolock erupted into raucous laughter — it was just too absurd! There he was, three-hundred-twenty-eight years old, and still suffering through a wet dream like a hormonal youth, and obviously so starved for sexual pleasure that he had ravished himself in his sleep, abducted by one of the wildest and sexiest dreams he’d ever experienced. It was really high time for him to get laid again. Visiting the village at night and observing the innkeeper’s beautiful daughter in her sleep, listening in on her sweet dreams and adding a few naughty visuals of his own to her highly imaginative mind, just wasn’t enough to satisfy his appetite anymore, no, he had to act on his desire. It was going to be her eighteenth birthday soon, and he had to make his move now, to claim what was rightfully his and make sure she would fulfil the prophecy. However, Krolock nodded to himself, he was going to be careful in his approach; facing her in person and introducing himself to her was a task not to be undertaken lightly. Sarah Chagal was such an innocent and timid maiden after all, and he had to make sure not to scare her away by an all too bold or eager approach.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I could have slapped a warning on this fic. It’s arguably non-con/rape, and arguably necrophilia. But let me assure you: the “dead” man 1) has rewritten the definition of death, as vampires do, and 2) is really into it, and he’s got his own set of questionable morals.


End file.
